Marysville, 2010

The taxi driver stepped out of the portable potty and glanced at his watch again: 2:30 a.m. "Damn, this better be worth one helluva tip." I mean, who flies into Yuba City airport at this hour? "Probably some self-important politician." But Marysville? The only event that ever takes place in this ghost town is the annual prune festival and that had come and gone like a bad case of diarrhea.

Well, whoever it was, wanted to be taken straight to the hospital. No stops, no tours of the city, just straight to the hospital. Oh yeah, and they requested a nonsmoking chauffeur. So where the hell was this VIP? "Damned jet was supposed to be here two hours ago." The last time a jet landed in these parts was because it got grounded in a lightning storm. Hell, it made front page news in the local newspaper.

No one important flew to Marysville on purpose. To even call this an airport was a stretch. The only thing that flew safely here was kid's kites. Pulling a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, he muttered aloud to himself, "Just one won't give you cancer." Pulling his ball cap lower on his brow, he chuckled as sat down in his limousine, also known as a yellow taxi cab.

Faraway in the night, he could hear the jet's engine whistling even before he could see the landing lights. As the jet began its descent to the runway, he could see this was no ordinary bird. Hell, maybe the governor was coming to town. As the jet coasted to a stop, he could see an inscription on the side: Touch & Go. He waited until the jet came to a full stop before pulling onto the runway. He had been instructed to pull right up next to the jet to pick up these VIPs.

After about ten minutes, a man built like a major household appliance with a shock of blond hair and a scruffy beard, was coming his way. Trailing behind, was a smaller guy in an oversized trench coat, ratty jeans, and a lot of black hair.

The Refrigerator had a Southern drawl. "Ah, this is the limo we ordered?" He cradled a suitcase under each arm as if they were ladies' purses.

"At this hour, the only thing on the streets out here is burglars and bad women. Oh yeah, and maybe drug dealers." Both men silently turned and confronted him with deadpan expressions. The smaller man shoved his hands deep into the pocket of his Al Capone coat. The taxi driver prayed he wasn't pulling a gun on him. "Forget I said that last part. I wasn't thinking."

"We've got more stuff on board, if ya don't mind?"

The smaller man lingered behind, never taking his eyes off him.

"Sure, no problem, fella ... sir." It might be a good idea to show some respect to the Big Guy. "Would love to see the inside of a bird like this."

"I'll get the rest myself. Just put everything in the trunk, please." Big Guy turned to his companion, "You sure this is what ya wanna do, buddy?"

"No." The smaller guy nodded yes.

The first bag was labeled as belonging to DJ Jansen. Turning over the tag on the other bag, he read the name: Michael Dolanski. Michael Dolanski. He'd heard that name before. Oh yeah. Marysville's only claim to fame had returned home. "Hey, I know who you are! You're that pop star, aren't ya? Michael ..."

"You're mistaken, okay?"

Just then the Big Guy returned with more bags.

"Well, you're sure not the governor!" The taxi driver was obviously pleased with himself. "God, my daughter would do somersaults. Why, she'd kill me if ..." Without thinking, he lit up a cigarette.

"I'm not whoever you think I am. Christ, put out that damned cigarette. Don't you read about secondhand smoke?"

"Oh hey, sorry. Wasn't thinking, I guess. I know—no smoking." Stamping out the offender, he opened the car door. "Lemme help you into the ..."

"I'm quite capable of getting into a car without your help."

Big Guy turned to the driver. "Take us to the hospital. As far as you are concerned, I am the fucking governor, and this other guy, he's secretary of state."

The taxi driver distinctly heard the smaller guy chuckle, "Oh man, you did not just say that."

Sunday was a typical autumn day in northern California, comfortably cool, bright skies, and only requiring a light sweater. After mass, Father Joe headed to the hospital to get organized for the following day. As his friend Anni often reminded him, organization was not one of his skill sets. As he crossed the street, he noticed a large group of kids, mostly girls, waving signs and dancing to music. Giving them a wide berth, he avoided the crowd and entered the hospital via a side door.

Unlocking his office door, he enjoyed his quiet office. As the hospital chaplain and resident counselor, he spent part of his time visiting patients and acting as a sort of unofficial therapist. Sitting down at his desk, he stared at the jumbled mess of papers and sticky notes. He picked up his phone and dialed the front desk. "It's Father di Blasio. What's going on in the parking lot?"

"Pop star, Michael Dolanski checked in late last night. Everyone is complaining about the noise and traffic."

"What brings him way up here?" Joe was looking for an ink pen that actually worked. "Has security been notified? What's his name again?"

"Security is on it. Michael ..."

"Yeah, right. Security must be in camouflage in the bushes. I didn't see anyone over the age of sixteen. Spell the last name." He found a pen and scribbled the name on a sticky note. "Okay, thanks. I'm going to make rounds, but I have my cell with me."

* * *

For Father Joe, his work day always started on the surgical floor with a coffee break at Anni Cavatini's office. She was the nurse manager who handled everything related to surgery. Today, she would be going over tomorrow's surgical schedule and would most likely be there for at least another hour. He never needed to knock, he saw the door was ajar, and walked in, sitting down in a chair across the desk from her. He always said the same thing: "Missed you in church this morning."

And she always replied, "And you'll be missing me until God returns to earth."

"Actually, it's Jesus. Jesus is supposed to return, not God. Have you always been so negative about the church or just since I came here?"

Anni smiled. "Coffee's on. Help yourself. And no, you know I think all churches are full of self-serving hypocrites. It's just since my divorce, well, the Catholic Church doesn't like me any more than I like them."

"And you know the church has lightened up on its stance on divorce. C'mon, Anni ..."

"Nope. Conversation over." But she was still smiling at him.

He liked looking at Anni. (She pronounced it Ah-nee). Anni: as in an antiquated throwback to the 1960s, though she wasn't old enough to recall that decade. A time when everyone had hope and still believed peace had a chance. Cavatini: a delectable dish with a fine wine. When she let her hair down, it hung like a black curtain to her waist.

When he first came to Marysville two years ago, he learned that one of his duties would be to serve as a chaplain, which was kind of like being a counselor, at the local hospital. Since he had never worked in a hospital before, Anni had introduced herself, and made it clear, she was his mentor for all things related to hospitals. Even though Anni was a registered nurse, she didn't provide direct patient care. Mostly, she managed a team of nurses, doctors and scheduled the surgeries. Since...